


Pulse

by lifeonmars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:51:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's much better getting shot the second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Pulse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640629) by [Selichuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selichuchi/pseuds/Selichuchi)



> thanks to avidbeader :)

The pain is a familiar one.

It leaves an echo of itself before it really hits, a backwards stutter, an empty space before nerves connect and scream a blazing emergency. Last time, John hit the ground first, felt that empty space, a funny disconnected dream. Then his shoulder erupted into fire and he knew.

This time is like that.

There is a strange, perverse thrill at this moment: There's something seriously wrong.

And then the roaring pain takes over and everything tunnels into a single black hole. Each heartbeat: black, white. The center of his pulse.

Last time it was his shoulder. That was a hot, sweeping burn, deep, much deeper than anything had a right to be. Now it's his arm. When his vision flares into focus he can see blood blooming at a spot near his bicep. Instinct kicks in, a hallucination of movement. Left hand on the wound, apply pressure. Drop, don't roll, get on your side. Easy. You'll go into shock.

The shock means you won't feel the pavement, the uneven stones under your shoulder. You'll only feel your breath and the pulse and the heat in your arm. And the pain will become something else, something big like light or water, something you can't separate from yourself. That's what shock is for.

Last time, John was alone.

He was one of many that day, dragged back, helicoptered, saved. He knew faces, vaguely. But he was one of many, all the same. They moved together, in uniform.

This time it's different.

John has been here before, in this white-shock world, eyes closed, but there's a strange comfort in it this time. Not alone. Sherlock will be here.

And he is, long strides hitting cobblestones, echoes rebounding in the alleyway. They detained him. There must have been a fight; John's glad of it. Sherlock's faster, first around the corner every time. But not this time. Thank God.

"John!"

Wool coat sweeping around him, Sherlock crouching. A distant corner of John's awareness: Losing consciousness. About three minutes away.

"Tourniquet... right here. Sherlock. Sorry... they ran..."

"Shh." Sherlock is action, movement above him, fierce pressure on the screaming point of black, something tight and solid cutting into John's pulse. Phone. Deep, broken voice. "Lestrade. Ambulance. Now."

"I'm okay," John says, and he means it. Sherlock's coat envelops him, heavy solid wool, familiar smell of home.

This is so much better, John wants to say. I've done this before, and I was nobody. Brought back by the luck of the draw.

Tearing fabric; Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's hands like birds, then steady, bracing. A nauseating heave of pain. John's arm tight, pulsing.

"Better." John hears his own voice.

"Yes, that'll do, now lie still." Hands, like birds, on his shoulders.

"I mean. Sherlock."

Fierce, bright eyes level with his. "I'm here."

"I know." Cobblestones, still there against his back, edges blurring into watercolor. Far too much pulse in his arm, a steady throb, beating into searing waves. But despite all this, Sherlock, it's all fine.

I want you to know.

"Last time," John manages, "I was alone." And he grins.

Sherlock's eyes, so bright, crinkle at the corners.

Warm fingers, a feather-touch around John's wrist, pressing gently, feeling his pulse. The throb of pain stutters, distracted.   
  
John moves his other hand, seeking. Sherlock will know, and he does. John's fingers are clammy, tips cold as they close around Sherlock's free wrist. Sherlock's heart beats beneath them, steady, quick. John counts in his head, automatic, over a long minute. 92. Elevated, to be expected, but just fine. Distant wail of sirens.   
  
Hands circle wrists, pulse to pulse.   
  
The pain is familiar, but this time, it doesn't matter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Pulse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469051) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




End file.
